


Floral Patterns

by rickyling



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Child Abuse, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Marijuana, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Rickyl, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8506819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyling/pseuds/rickyling
Summary: a story about a boy with wind chime laughter and brilliant blue eyes and a smile that favored the left side of his face





	

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read, please check the warnings. There will be multiple implications of child abuse (obviously, it's a story about Daryl Dixon), self-harm, suicidal ideations, and underage smoking/drinking. 
> 
> Dedicated to Goulet, my best friend who died about two weeks ago, who inspired this fic. A lot of these scenes are taken from my own life, which is pretty cool, I guess.
> 
> Also, play a game of spot the rickyl/song references

Rick  _ hates _ parties. 

They’re too loud, too crowded, too full of bone-headed teenagers seeing who could drink the most shots in three seconds. There were unconscious bodies and puddles of vomit to step over, fights to break up, and Rick’s pretty certain he’s the only one here who’s not wasted. He hates drinking more than he hates parties, but he was dragged along by his friends to be a designated driver. That’s how he ended up on a stranger’s couch, a glass of water in one hand and his cell phone in the other. 

He thinks it's four hours into the party when he makes eye contact with a boy on the other side of the room. Rick blinks and straightens in surprise; he’s seen the kid around, definitely, but his name is unknown. Brilliant blue eyes search Rick’s own, pinning him in a strange trance when he realizes with a start: he’s sober, too. 

The kid starts making his way towards Rick, getting stuck in the throng of girls who drape themselves across his broad shoulders and press messy kisses to the side of his mouth. Rick watches his face contort in disgust, but his eyes never leave Rick’s own. It takes a whole song for him to reach the couch, finally escaping the dance floor. 

He smells like weed. There’s stains on his once-white tank top, which was now a faded beige. With him, he carries the faint scent of alcohol, though it was not nearly as prominent as the others in the room. Rick looks up at him as he lowers himself onto the couch cautiously, almost like he was afraid Rick was going to suddenly lash out at him. The bass fades into the back of Rick’s mind, a thundering presence drowned out by the boy’s eyes. 

“You sober?” The boy asks. His voice is husky, far beyond his years, with a slight accent that makes it sound more like a drawl. 

“Yes.” Rick shifts into a more comfortable position. “I’m the designated driver. You?” 

He speaks like he didn’t hear Rick’s question. “Who’re y’here with?”

“Glenn Rhee, Tara Chambler, a few others. I doubt you know them.”

“I know ‘em.” 

They’re silent for a while. It's not awkward like Rick expected it to be, considering the circumstances. Instead, it's surprisingly comfortable. The boy is watching the crowd like it’s his job, brilliant blues scanning the group of teenagers, narrowed and judging. Rick watches him, trying to memorize all his features: cheekbones that you could hang ornaments from, round nose, split lip, black and blue bruises under his small eyes. 

“Who are you lookin’ for.” Rick doesn’t mean to break the silence, but he breathes the question out anyway. 

Blue eyes turn to him. “A kid who I think is harassing my friend. I’m makin’ sure he doesn’t touch her.” It’s said so rawly, so seriously, that Rick’s heart flutters. 

“Who’s your friend?”

“Maggie,” He says. Then: “Greene.” 

The name is familiar, and after a moment of trying to find a face, Rick pairs it with pretty green eyes, soft cheekbones, and a contagious smile. Rick nods, scanning the crowd for the girl in vain. The bodies are all mixed together in a single mass of dancing and drinking. Beside him, the boy lights a joint. 

“You don’t like parties.” It’s not a question. 

Rick nods. “Too loud.” 

The boy chuckles deep in his throat, adjusting himself so he’s facing Rick at a three-fourths angle, one eye still on the party and Maggie’s unseen body. Rick blushes as he’s passed the joint. He inhales deeply, feeling his nerves calmed almost instantly. The boy’s smile is crooked, favoring the left side of his face. 

They talk until the party dies down. Two hours, maybe four, perhaps six. Time is lost to them as they pass the weed back and forth. The boy’s favorite color is brown. He hates mashed potatoes and loves the smell of rain. He started smoking when he was ten. He tells stories of the people he’s met and never saw again; he speaks of them in high honor, with bright eyes and exuberant hand movements. Rick is completely engrossed in everything he does. 

When the night draws to an end, and Glenn has slumped against his shoulder, Rick asks the one question he forgot. 

“What’s your name?”

The boy with brilliant blue eyes pauses, halfway down the lawn and a few meters away from Rick’s car. The left side of his face gleams. 

“Daryl Dixon.” 

“I’m Rick Grimes. It was uh - great meeting you. We should do this again sometime.” It’s meant almost entirely as a joke, though his heart yearns for the couch and the weed and the thundering music. After a moment of silence, he continues, just above a whisper: “Or will this be one of your stories?”

Daryl’s laugh is like wind chimes.

* * *

 

Rick hopes, somewhat foolishly, that he’ll see Daryl the next week at school. He scans the crowds of students, searching the sea of faces for brilliant blue eyes and a smile that favors the left side of the face. His efforts are in vain. Monday, Tuesday, all the way through Friday Rick searches with vigor for the boy, and each day he drives home with an empty heart.

The next time he sees him is at a party two weeks after the first. Rick isn't the driver anymore, and the only reason he tags along is hope that Daryl will be among the many teens screaming to the sky. Glenn is hyped up when the bass shakes the ground at their feet, Tara is already stepping over the threshold into the house before Rick even exits the car. 

Within minutes of being inside, Rick knows Daryl’s there. He feels his presence, hears his wind chime laughter only moments before he sees him in the center of the dance floor. The crowd moves around him, into him, with him. Girls throw themselves at him, fruitless efforts to get his attention only to be ignored. A leather vest hangs off his shoulders. Glenn and Tara are gone. 

Daryl looks at Rick like he's a stranger and an old friend all at once. When he stumbles over, Rick knows he's far beyond wasted; he reeks of crappy liquor, weed, and sweat. Rick wants to bury his face in his neck. He finds himself wondering what Daryl smells like when he isn’t at a party. He imagines like the forest and leather.

Rick catches him as he half falls onto him. “Get a drink, Ricky,” Daryl slurs. The pet name makes Rick squirm in irritation, but he obliges without complaint. 

He hates parties, he hates parties. Daryl is handing him a shot glass. After four, five, six, and Daryl fixing himself against his side, he doesn’t hate parties that much anymore. 

The couch they find is scratchy and printed with a floral pattern that was probably once really pretty before years of being worn down. Rick’s not sure whose house they’re at this time, whose parents will come home after the weekend is over to a destroyed house. Daryl sits practically on top of him, putting back shot after shot. Rick laughs, tummy warm from the vodka and Daryl’s loopy persona. 

“Why haven’t I seen you in school?” Rick asks. He takes another shot and the room around him spins. 

Daryl shrugs. “Haven’t really been goin’.” 

“Oh.” Rick doesn’t ask why; he wants to, and it would probably help him sleep better at night, but he doesn’t.

“I’ll go next week,” Daryl promises. There’s a shift in the atmosphere then, a moment when Rick can’t decide what to say next. Daryl isn’t paying attention to him, his eyes are locked on the flame at the end of his cigarette. 

“You can talk to me, Daryl,” Rick says. 

“I hardly know you, Rick,” Daryl replies. 

Rick accepts that by turning back to the dancefloor. That’s when he sees her, and suddenly the room is silent. 

She’s taken Daryl’s place in the center of the crowd, spinning and twisting around the people. Unlike they did with Daryl, they don’t drape themselves across her and shove into her personal bubble. They move around her like a stream around rocks. Rick’s mouth falls open.

“Who is that?”

Daryl follows his line of sight. “Michonne.”

“Michonne…?”

“Jus’ Michonne.” 

“She’s beautiful.” Rick is awestruck. Daryl watches him and takes another shot. 

“I guess.” 

Rick smiles at Daryl dryly. They’re sat close enough for their thighs and shoulders to be touching, but Rick’s never felt more distant from anyone, ever. It occurs to Rick that he really  _ doesn’t _ know who Daryl is. He knows his favorite color and least favorite food, but that’s first day of school icebreaker game level of knowing someone. He wants to know more. He wants to know  _ everything _ . Daryl is watching him, there’s a weight on his soul that indicates such, and it's comforting.

“So I’ll see you on Monday definitely, right?” Rick asks, smiling slightly.

Daryl snickers. “Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

* * *

 

Sure enough, Daryl keeps his promise and makes his way through a crowded hallway towards Rick on Monday morning. A few kids go out of their way to get out of his, casting fearful glances over their shoulders at him. If he notices it, he doesn’t show it. Rick leans against his locker with Glenn, who’s started tapping his foot nervously, while he waits for Daryl. 

“Sup,” Daryl greets. His eyes go right passed Rick and scan Glenn up and down. The younger boy gets a whimper caught in his throat. 

“Hi,” Rick says. He indicates to Glenn. “This is my friend, Glenn, I mentioned him before?”

Daryl nods. “‘Nd I said I knew ‘im.” He nods to the boy. “Glenn.”

“Daryl,” Glenn replies. 

Daryl is scary. His shoulders are broad, his face is sharp, his eyes are narrow, his biceps bulge from beyond his leather vest, and his skin is marred with tattoos and scars. It doesn’t shock Rick that Glenn has taken a step back and prefers to stare at his own shoes than into Daryl’s brilliant blue eyes. 

Rick clears his throat. “How was your weekend?” They start walking to Rick and Glenn’s next class, Daryl careless about his own.

“It was a weekend,” Daryl says plainly. Glenn is watching him through narrowed eyes, his mouth open slightly like he has a question he wants to ask. He does. 

“You know Maggie Greene, right?” The Asian boy questions, taking Rick by surprise.

“Yeah.” Daryl looks at him suspiciously. “Why?” 

“Just curious,” Glenn murmurs. The left side of Daryl’s face turns upwards more than the right side.

Rick hates math, Glenn doesn't mind it. Daryl grunts when he sees who's teaching it, he hovers by the doorway and shoves his hands in his armpits. He smells faintly of cigarette smoke and dog. Rick doesn't want to say goodbye to him, so he lets Glenn go into the classroom first and pick out their seats. Daryl relaxes a little bit.

“Really, though,” Rick says. “How was your weekend?” 

“Fine, whatever.” Daryl chews on his thumbnail. “Yours?”

“Fine.” Rick shrugs. “We should hang out like… not at parties.” 

Daryl smiles and they exchange numbers. Rick adds a dog emoji next to Daryl’s name, Daryl adds a sun next to his. The late bell rings, ripping Rick from his Daryl-induced trance. 

“I gotta go,” Rick says regretfully, like Daryl couldn't tell. The other boy nudges him towards the open door with a gentle shoulder; Rick digs his heels in before he could get all the way into the classroom. “Don't you have class?”

“Don't worry about it,” Says Daryl. He does.

About fifteen minutes into class, Rick’s phone buzzes in his pocket. The teacher is oblivious and continues rambling about polynomials while he retrieves it from his pocket. 

_ ‘hey.’ _

_ ‘Can't talk, Daryl.’ _

_ ‘why’ _

_ ‘Class’ _

_ ‘and?’  _

Rick snorts to himself, covering his mouth with his hand when the students surrounding him cast him confused glances. 

‘ _ You’re distracting me’ _

_ ‘ur such a nerd’ _

_ ‘Yes i am. Go to class’ _

_ ‘ok mom’ _

Rick puts his phone away and keeps a smile on his face for the rest of class. Suddenly he likes math, too.

* * *

 

“Your parents don't care when you smoke?” Rick asks. They're sitting on the curb outside Taco Bell, a twelve pack shared between them, Daryl smoking. He lets out a sharp laugh, then instantly ducks his head like he didn't mean it. 

“No.” Laughter still lightens his voice. “My ma’s dead, my dad might as well be.” 

He says it so calmly that Rick is left speechless for a few moments. “Your mom's  _ dead _ ?” Briefly, he imagines life without his own mother. He shakes his head rapidly to rid the thoughts from his head.

Daryl is watching him. “Yes.”

“Don't you miss her?”

“No.”

Rick wants to ask more, about how she died and about his father, but Daryl’s already turned his attention to the tacos. Rick didn't even notice him toss away the cigarette.

Maggie joins them a few minutes later. Brown hair braided, fishnets and doc martens, she sits next to Daryl on the curb and reaches around him to shake Rick’s hand. Rick likes her; she's funny, smells like flowers, and has a good taste in music. 

She asks about Glenn, which takes Rick by surprise. He answers all her questions and shares his soda with her. Daryl leans back on the sidewalk, hands resting on his stomach, while they talk. He watches the sky, occasionally pointing out a bird or cloud. 

Only when the manager comes out and complains about their loitering do they stumble back to Maggie’s house. They light up on her porch, a bong and bowl passed between them, snorting when Daryl trips over his own feet. Maggie talks eloquently about Greeks myths and fairy tales, and Rick ends up wearing a sweater that isn't his and smells strongly of weed. It keeps him safe from the cold, so he doesn't mind. 

When the sun goes down, Daryl buys them hot chocolate and they sit on the swings at a park Maggie used to play at when she was a kid. Rick looks up through the trees, upset when he can't see more than a handful of stars. Daryl is slumped beside him, long hair tickling Rick’s neck as he snores softly on his shoulder. Maggie sings quietly. 

“I think,” Rick starts, waking Daryl. “we all have so many problems. What's with that?”

Daryl lights a cigarette. Maggie sees how far she can throw her styrofoam cup. 

“Life sucks,” Daryl answers only when he realizes no one else will. “We gotta lot’a reasons t’have problems.” His voice is distorted by the cigarette between his lips.

“Hey,” Maggie says. She points in the direction of the wooded glen on the edge of the park. “A skunk!” 

It's snuffling in the grass by the edge of the trees, completely unaware or uncaring of their presence. Daryl’s body stiffens in excitement and Rick has a strong feeling of fondness for him. 

“‘m namin’ him Joseph,” Daryl declares.

“What if it's a girl skunk?” Maggie counters.

Daryl huffs. “Josephine.” 

Maggie giggles in satisfaction. Rick wonders about an essay he has due on Monday. It's Saturday now, and there's been no talk of parties. Maggie starts to sing quietly again, while Daryl and Rick spread out on the ground, their backs to a tree, legs tangled to keep warm. 

They talk about their problems and they laugh about their problems. Rick wishes he could see more stars and Daryl wishes he could stay in the moment forever; he's never been warmer, is what he tells Rick. Cold seeps through Rick’s clothes and numbs his fingers. His hot chocolate is beyond bitter now, and tastes grainy and slightly like styrofoam. Yet, somehow, he too is warm. 

When it becomes one in the morning, and the chilled weather becomes too much, they part ways. Rick drives home despite Maggie and Daryl’s protests. They plan to crash at Maggie's that night, an offer Rick almost can't refuse, but does. 

“I have an essay to write,” He admits.

Daryl, voice an octave deeper from exhaustion, says: “It's one am, Ricky.”

“Drive safe,” Maggie ignores Daryl’s questioning. She looks like she just wants to go to sleep. 

“I will,” Rick promises. “G’night.” 

He goes home wearing Daryl’s sweater. It smells like weed and hot chocolate and grass. He's never felt safer.

* * *

 

Daryl texts Rick at three in the morning. 

_ ‘my dad's very loud’ _

_ ‘What do you mean?’ _

A couple minutes pass before Daryl replies. 

_ ‘nothing. forget i said anything.’ _

_ ‘Daryl.’ _

_ ‘goodnight rick’ _

Monday morning, Daryl walks into school with a cut down his left cheek and a black eye. Maggie brings him into the bathroom and cleans him up, but he still tugs his hood over his head despite the teachers asking him to take it down.

“We can't see your face like that,” They say. “Take it down or leave the class.”

Daryl leaves and finds whatever class Rick is in, then settles down outside the door and waits for the bell to ring.

* * *

 

The next weekend, Rick finds himself squeezed between Daryl and Glenn. Strobe lights make it hard for him to process anything he's seeing, but Daryl guides them through the stranger's house confidently. Maggie awaits them in the kitchen, leaning against the table smoking from a bowl. She offers it up to Daryl when they approach. 

“Hey, you brought Glenn along,” Maggie raises her voice over the music. She's smirking at Rick, tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth. 

“Hi,” Glenn says shyly. Maggie blushes and giggles. 

“I always do.” Rick rolls his eyes. “You just never see him.” Maggie smacks him playfully on the shoulder. 

“Well, from now on I’ll be sure to  – Daryl?” Maggie cuts herself off when Daryl, looking enraged, starts off towards the living room. Rick reaches out, grabs his arm and yanks him to a stop.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Rick questions.

“Got beef with one’a those slugs over there,” Daryl growls, lighting a cigarette. 

Maggie huffs. “Have fun.” Rick releases Daryl’s arm and he's gone.

“He's gonna fight?” Rick asks, and seconds later is answered by the sound of shattering glasses and whooping cheers. 

“Always does.” 

“Will he…?”

“Win? Yes.” 

“Who? Daryl Dixon?” A third voice joins them uninvited from the doorway, startling them. Michonne stands leaning against the frame with a cigarette in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. She looks bored, unamused at best. 

Maggie's brow furrows at the sight of their visitor, Rick’s heart skips a beat, Glenn takes a hit. 

“Michonne,” Maggie starts cooly. 

Michonne raises a hand to stop her. “Daryl always wins, he's good at fighting.” Rick can't stop staring at her. Her teeth are straight and white against her dark skin when she smiles. “He likes it, too.” 

“Why?” Rick can't help the question from falling off his tongue. 

Michonne shrugs. “Some people think it's ‘cause he's never fought his father back. I, personally, think it's because he's an asshole.”

“The fuck do you know,” Maggie spits, and then she's rushing from the room with Glenn in tow. 

While Rick tries to process what the hell just happened, Michonne slides in beside him. “You're new to this.” It's not a question. 

“I don't like parties.”

“You go to an awful lot for someone who doesn't like them.” Michonne chuckles.

“Daryl likes them.” 

“Let's get out of here,” She says in response. Rick can't help but oblige, following her out of the back door and into the lawn. The night is cold, like the night at the park. Rick wishes he still had Daryl’s sweater.

They settle down in the damp grass. There's more stars visible from here, much to Rick’s liking. Besides him, Michonne shivers. 

“Cold?” Rick asks.

She nods, slightly, and Rick moves an inch closer so they're pressed together, stranger to stranger. 

“Do you like parties?” Rick mumbles in question, feeling alone.

“No.” Michonne shakes her head. “I just go because I need an escape, I guess.” 

“Yeah, me too.”

“I thought you go because Daryl likes them.”

“Well, that too.” 

“You love him.”

Rick stiffens. Michonne can feel it. “He's a friend.”

She laughs softly, like snow. “You can love friends, Rick.” 

“Right.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Then yes, I’ve only known him for a few weeks at best and I love him.”

“Stop being sarcastic.” Michonne nudges him in amusement. Rick snorts and nudges her harder. They end up on their backs, staring up at the sky, shoulders pressed together.

“Are we going to be friends?” Rick asks her, quiet.

She sighs. “No, we aren't going to be friends.” And then she kisses him.

* * *

 

Rick goes home alone that night. His house is quiet, sound asleep, but his heart is ecstatic. He can't stop smiling or tasting Michonne on his tongue. He's convinced his thumping heart will wake his family. For the first time all night, he checks his phone. 

There's one unread text from Daryl. 

‘ _ whats your address’ _

Rick texts it back, confused. Daryl replies within seconds.

_ ‘can i come over’ _

_ ‘What? R u ok?’ _

_ ‘no’ _

Rick’s mood plummets. Any ecstasy he felt moments before has vanished. Daryl texts him again before he replies. 

‘ _ i'll come through the window’ _

_ ‘Be quick’ _

In five minutes, there's a tapping on Rick’s bedroom window and he's throwing it open. Daryl hauls himself through. The first thing Rick notices is that he's shirtless. The next thing he notices is that he's covered in blood, fresh and old. His stomach flips over when he realizes Daryl is crying. 

Actually crying. Not sniffling, not trying to hide it. His chest heaves in sobs as he throws himself into Rick’s open arms. 

“Hey, hey,” Rick’s trying not to panic. He brushes Daryl’s hair out of his face. It's caked in blood and sticks to his forehead and cheeks where tears stain them. “Talk to me, Dare, talk to me.”

Daryl shakes his head violently and chokes on sob. For minutes, maybe hours, Rick loses track of time, he holds Daryl until finally he's calmed down enough to speak. 

“‘m sorry,” He says, sounding small. 

“Don't be.” Rick presses his cheek into the top of his friend’s head. Daryl sits up on his bed, looking around Rick’s room. His eyes are puffy and red from crying. Rick doesn't mention it. “Did you win?” He knows he did. He also knows this isn't about the fight.

Daryl has pointy teeth that show when he smiles. “Yeah.” 

“Good. Lay down.” And they do. 

“Can you tell me a story?” Daryl ask. His eyes are wet against Rick’s shirt, soaking through to his skin. He rests lower than Rick on the pillow. Rick tangles their legs together and tries to ignore the sticky feel of blood on his palms when he touches Daryl’s shoulder. 

“About what?” 

“Anything.”

He tells him a story about an archer who loved his brother so fiercely it killed him. Daryl cries.

* * *

 

When Rick wakes up the next morning, Daryl is gone. Just as he expected.

* * *

 

Sunday evenings make Rick sad. Anxious, too, at the thought of facing a new week. He knows Daryl feels the same, Maggie and Glenn too, probably. At the thought of the two, Rick can't help but smile. 

According to many sources, one of those being Glenn, they had kissed (and more) at the party. The same night Rick and Michonne did. Now, they are MIA, and it's just Rick and Daryl, a bong made from a Gatorade bottle between them.

Rick also hears, to his terror, that there was no fight between Daryl and the other boy  – Abraham. The crashing and cheering were from a disastrous round of beer pong. Daryl had ultimately vanished.

Illuminated by the sunset, alight an orange halo, Daryl is an abstract painting - the best Rick has ever seen. The most complicated art with such a hidden meaning it makes his soul hurt with the need to figure it out. He wants to know the story behind each and every one of Daryl’s brushstrokes, even those that were never finished. The boy, though shattered and mediocre at best, belongs in a museum.

“What did you mean,” Rick says. “when you said your father was loud?”

Daryl takes the biggest hit Rick’s ever seen him take. Rick waits patiently for an answer. He doesn't get one. 

“Nothin’,” He replies. “Should’a never said anythin’.”

“Daryl…” Rick sighs.

“Leave it alone, Rick.” 

“That night  – that blood wasn't from the fight. There  _ was  _ no fight – ” 

“Please – ” Daryl pleads, eyes wet. Rick shifts closer to his friend, weed forgotten. Daryl leans his head against his shoulder. Amidst his shuddering breaths, Daryl asks: “Tell me another story.”

Rick tells him a story about his grandfather and the war. Daryl cries.

* * *

 

At one point, Daryl stops texting Rick before he comes over. Rick wakes to Daryl tapping on the window, more often than not crying and bleeding and smelling like liquor and sex. It makes Rick sick. What he doesn't know will kill him, he knows that; and what he does know deep down will certainly kill Daryl. 

Maggie laughs when Rick tells her about this. He’s been doing the same to her for many months now. Rick wishes he could laugh along. Daryl, a bystander to the conversation, rolls his eyes and scoffs, “If I’m ever knockin’ on the front door instead’a climbing through the window, I’m half-dead.”

* * *

 

Rick meets Daryl’s dad on a Tuesday and Tuesday quickly becomes his least favorite day of the week. Overcast and gray, the sky reflects the pit in Rick’s stomach when he pulls into Daryl’s driveway. It hasn't rained yet today, but the radar promises it will by the night. A shitty day for a football game, but a great day for getting shit faced drunk, according to Daryl with a smirk. 

Rick stops his car outside of Daryl’s house and pulls his phone out, scrolling mindlessly while he waits for the boy to join him. Daryl’s truck broke down the day before, and after a lot of persistence, Rick convinced him to let him pick him up. When a hand slams down on the hood of his car, he understands why. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Will Dixon is ugly. His face is dented, his mouth is missing teeth, and his hair is patchy. Rick is completely lost as to how such an ugly human could have created Daryl. He rolls down the window. 

“Rick,” He says. “Daryl’s friend,” He clarifies. 

The man’s smile favors the left side of his face. It makes Rick sick. “Daryl’s  _ friend _ ?” There’s scorn in his voice that makes defensiveness grasp at Rick’s throat. 

“Yeah – ” 

“Rick,” Daryl’s voice sounds from the other side of his car. Will looks up over the vehicle as Daryl slips into it. “Drive away,” Daryl pleads, quiet enough so only Rick could hear it. 

“Where y’goin’ boy?” His father spits on the ground and remains leaning against the car. Daryl’s foot is going crazy tapping on the floor of the car. His thumbnail is stuck in his mouth. Rick makes out a trickle of blood running down it. 

Rick answers for him. “Just to a football game.” 

“I dunno if I’ll be back tonight,” Daryl chimes in nervously. 

Will Dixon scoffs. “Don’t care if y’never come back. Get the fuck out of my driveway.”

And they do. 

Once his house is out of view, Daryl starts calming down. Rick puts his hand on his thigh and squeezes sympathetically, leaving it there until his breathing returns to normal. Daryl buries his face in his hands and groans. 

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and shakes his head. 

“Don’t be. I’m kind of glad I met him,” Rick admits. His hand slips from Daryl’s thigh. 

Daryl looks at him like he’s grown another head. “Why?”

Rick shrugs. “I dunno. I just feel… complete I guess. Not in a good way,” He adds hastily when Daryl’s face contorts. “It’s weird. I dunno how to explain it.”

“No,” Daryl sighs. “I get it.”

They fall into a silence. It's comfortable, Daryl hums along to a song playing quietly on the radio as he looks out the window. Rick alternates between watching the road and watching the boy. Rick huffs. 

“Daryl…” He starts. Daryl doesn’t turn to look at him. “I know that he – ”

Now Daryl faces him. His eyes are wet. “Can we – ” He breaks off with a choke and gathers himself. “Can we not talk about it. Like, ever.” 

Rick bites the inside of his mouth. “Talk about what?” 

Daryl blinks in confusion for the few seconds it takes him to realize why Rick is grinning. Then his face splits into a lopsided smile and he ducks his head as he chuckles. Rick laughs, too, despite the tightness in his chest. When Daryl raises his head again, he’s brushing away the tears that escaped in his weakness. 

“Thank you,” He whispers. “For everything.”

Rick returns his hand to his thigh. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

 

It rains that night, but under the bleachers, it's warm and dry and smells like weed and sweat. 

Daryl sits not facing Rick but instead the space in the bleachers that allows him to gaze somewhat wistfully up at the sky. The clouds had opened up not seconds before, the rain pounds down on the metal above them in a metallic rhythm. The football players power through, as well as their fans and cheerleaders, and the familiar sounds of the game continue without hesitation or surrender. Daryl listens but doesn’t watch. 

The light hits him in a peculiar way. The harshness of the lamps that enlighten the football field cut sharp shadows in Daryl’s skin. His cheekbones seem somehow sharper, his eyes somehow more narrow. Still, he looks soft. Perhaps it was the weed clouding his brain, but Rick thinks he may even look beautiful. 

“You ever wanna play?” Rick asks, passing the joint to Daryl. The boy takes it after a moment’s hesitation. 

“...sorta.” 

Rick’s heart aches knowing he would’ve never had the opportunity. Daryl turns back to the game he can’t see. 

The rain continues harshly. The band and color guard leave, fearing for the instruments, but everyone else stays. They take cover under their umbrellas or hoods, while a few brave kids join them under the bleachers. Middle schoolers, Rick notes the way their eyes widen in shocked curiosity as Daryl takes a drag of the weed. 

Rick and Daryl are in the middle of teasing the younger boys when Maggie, Glenn, and Michonne come splashing into their cover, a couple soggy plates of french fries carried between them. Michonne pecks Rick on the cheek sloppily and passes the fries to Daryl, who immediately begins stuffing his face in delight. 

“Munchies already?” Glenn laughs, shaking out his wet hair. Daryl, mouth full, sticks his tongue out. Glenn grimaces in amused disgust. 

They go back and forth a while, only stopping when they exhaust themselves. Glenn and Maggie leave when the rain persists and Maggie whines about being cold. Daryl hugs her goodbye and watches them go blankly. Michonne presses up against Rick when the wind tugs at them. 

“I wish we could see the stars,” Daryl mumbles, a shiver in his voice. Rick frowns.

“We should leave before you catch a cold.”

Daryl shakes his head. “Its warm under here.”

“Then why are you shivering?”

Daryl doesn’t answer. Rick doesn’t expect him to.

* * *

 

Daryl says he needs a break. A rest, he clarifies. Rick, try as he might, does not understand, and watches with a heavy and confused soul Daryl drive off from the football game with a stranger. Rick didn’t even see their face. And although his understanding of the situation is little to none, he knows well enough that he won’t see Daryl for a few days at least. 

So he goes home with Michonne. 

They sneak into her house, stifling giggles as they shimmy up the stairs. Michonne only removes her hand from Rick’s to peel off her wet shirt, and then Rick’s. They do this with each article of clothing until they’re rolling around the floor, relishing in skin to skin contact. Michonne has a twin sized mattress. 

It is a relief to kiss her again. Rick feels for the first time in a long time that he can breathe again, especially when she takes his breath away. 

Miles away, in a hole in the wall, razors and unknown lips skate across Daryl’s skin. He bites the pillow and replays Rick’s stories over and over in his mind. He cries.

* * *

 

_ ‘promise me you’ll stay’ _

_ ‘I’ll stay, daryl’ _

_ ‘promise?’ _

_ ‘Promise’ _

* * *

 

True to his expectations, Rick doesn’t see Daryl in five days. They text occasionally, usually in the middle of the night. Rick finds himself preoccupied with Michonne in Daryl’s absence. Daryl finds himself preoccupied with strangers and alleyways and bad hangovers. On the fifth day, Rick sends a group text to Maggie, Glenn, Daryl, and Michonne. 

_ ‘Parents are gone for the weekend. Bring weed.’ _

Maggie replies first. 

_ ‘Just us?’ _

_ ‘Just us.’ _

_ ‘Glenn & I are there’ _

Daryl and Michonne send back equally enthusiastic replies, and within three hours they’re settled on Rick’s couch, a rolling plate and thirty dollars worth of corner store snack food in front of them. It takes Rick about four hits before he starts feeling tired, proof of how long his week was; his head lolls on Daryl’s shoulder. 

“Y’never were much of a tired high, Ricky,” Daryl says, amused. “What changed?”

“Jus’ been a long week,” Rick slurs in reply. Daryl leans his head atop Rick’s, humming in agreement. 

“You need to stop missing so much school,” Maggie gently chastises. Her and Michonne are sprawled out together on the floor with Glenn sitting contently on the edge of the carpet. 

Daryl groans. “I know. Fuck, I know. I’m sorry guys.” 

“Don’t ever apologize to us.” Rick frowns. Daryl yanks away from him, standing off the couch and pacing around the room. Thumbnail stuck in his mouth, arms wrapped around himself, Daryl turns circles.

“Why wouldn't I?” He rants. “I’m such a burden, I’m so inconsistent and messy and unloveable and – ” 

“Whoa, stop,” Maggie coos. She untangles herself from Michonne and grabs both of Daryl’s shoulders. She forces him to look into her eyes, brilliant green clashing brilliant blue. “You’re not any of that, babe.” Daryl shakes his head violently. “Hey, look at me.” He does. Her hands cup his face gently. “You’re worthy of love.”

Daryl asks, so quiet and small, “Then doesn't he love me?” 

“Sweetheart…” 

“Why am I never enough? I wasn't enough for my mom, so she offed herself, I wasn't enough for my brother so he ran away as soon as he could, I’m not enough for my dad so he  _ beats _ my ass for  _ breathing _ – _ ”  _ Daryl is a gasping, panicking mess in Maggie’s arms. The weed that was supposed to help only makes it easier for the tears to flow. 

Maggie’s crying now, too, and whatever happy air the gathering had not two minutes ago is but a memory. She doesn't attempt to tell Daryl otherwise, she just yanks him so forcefully into a hug that a sob catches in his throat before he hugs her back.

Rick joins them next, snaking his arms around Daryl’s waist and pressing his chest against the length of the other boy’s broad back. He buries his face in Daryl’s neck, inhales deeply and tries to pick out the smell of  _ Daryl  _ underneath all that weed. Michonne’s and Glenn’s arms secure them all finally, and they stay there until the sun rises and Daryl finally stops crying.

* * *

 

“Rick,” Rick looks up from his cereal at his mother’s voice. His head is pounding and his eyes are heavy. 

Rick makes a sound in his throat to indicate that he heard her, too hungover from the night before to answer. Daryl, who had been too tired after his breakdown to do anything but crawl into bed next to Rick, yawns beside him. 

“There's this girl your father and I met through church…” His mother trails off, naive and optimistic. Rick gapes at her, Daryl snorts and gets milk on his nose. It's in that moment that in all the excitement of the past few weeks, it occurs to Rick that he completely failed to tell his parents about his relationship with Michonne. They  _ had _ a relationship, right? 

She continues like she didn't notice their reactions. “We just want to make sure you, uh, get on the right path  – you know, with the right people.” 

Daryl’s laughter stifles into a wheeze. Rick smacks him when her back is to them. 

“Mom – ” Rick attempts.

She cuts him off. “Her name is Lori, her family is coming for dinner tonight. She's excited to meet you.” 

Daryl and Rick exchange glances; Daryl shrugs when Rick raises his eyebrows. Rick silently groans. Daryl rubs his thigh under the table sympathetically.

“Daryl, honey, you can come, too, if you'd like.”

He laughs gently at the invitation. “Thank you, ma'am, but I think I’ve overstayed my welco – ”

“Nonsense!” She interrupts him cheerfully. “We love having you around. Please, stay.” 

Now it's Rick’s turn to smirk in amusement. He knows the last thing Daryl wants to do on a Sunday night is stick around a church goers dinner party. Nevertheless, his smile favors the left side of his face. 

“Okay, I’d love to.”

“Great!” Rick’s mother wraps them both up in a hug. The two boys roll eyes at each other from beyond the curtain of her long brown hair.

* * *

 

“Remind me again why I didn’t just tell her I have a girlfriend,” Rick groans, tossing himself down on his bed. Daryl follows him into his room slowly. He shuts the door behind them and ventures over to the bookshelf. 

“I dunno,” The boy says, uninterested. He sits in front of the disorganized array of novels and picks one out at random. Rick huffs. 

“Helpful.”

“You’ll be fine. ‘S not like yer gonna kiss this Laura girl.”

“It's Lori.”

“Defending her so fiercely? You’re practically married.”

“Screw you,” Rick laughs and chucks a pillow at Daryl’s head. “Seriously, though, what the fuck do I do?”

Daryl faces him with a sympathetic smile. “Jus’ be honest with her. Or don’t say anythin’ at all. Or I’ll pretend to be you and you pretend to – ”

“Okay,” Rick interrupts, breathless. “You’re done coming up with ideas.” 

His friend smirks in victory. He goes back to his book; Rick watches him for a few moments, softly, before gathering his laptop to finish an essay that was due a few days ago. They stay in their peacefully unfamiliar domestic bubble in content silence until Daryl breaks it. 

“This is good,” He says. Rick glances over briefly.

“The book?”

“No.” Daryl shakes his head. “This. Us. Just chillin’.”

Rick can’t help the smile from creeping up on his face. “I was just thinking that. Yeah, this is good. We should do this more often.” 

“Yeah…” Daryl’s voice trails off. He’s staring at the pages of the book, not once in the short silence did he flip a single one. Rick realizes he hasn’t been reading, just thinking. Another wave of fondness floods him, and he’s thankful Daryl is too focused on his own mind to notice Rick staring. 

Rick dreads this dinner party. He wishes Daryl hadn’t agreed to stay. Not because he didn’t want him there, because he feels a lot more comfortable with the situation knowing Daryl will be sitting beside him, but because he doesn’t want this life and he knows Daryl doesn’t want it either. They’re more than happy to be delinquents, and while they could both do without Daryl’s dad being an ever-looming presence, Rick doesn’t want to marry the girl from church. He must’ve let his thoughts loose in a sigh, as Daryl turns to him with worry furrowing his brow.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

“I know,” Rick shrugs. “Will you?”

“Tonight? Or in general?”

“In general.”

“No.” Daryl puts the book back on the shelf.

* * *

 

Dinner is awkward. Lori is beautiful. Daryl is pressing as close to Rick as he can. Rick wants to die. 

His parents ramble on about his grades, his beliefs, his lack of a criminal record (for now), his “amazingly perfect” personality. Daryl is mentioned in passing, some side comment about being Rick’s best friend. Rick grits his teeth and nudges his chicken about his plate in attempts to be quiet when the churchgoing family scans Daryl with judgmental eyes. Daryl huffs and seems awfully interested in the ceiling. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ they’re excused. Daryl shoots up from the table so fast his knees jerk the underside of it. Rick stifles a chuckle and darts from the room after him. Daryl’s making a beeline straight to the back door, Rick only a few paces behind him the entire time. As soon as the doors open, and they’re rushed with cool outside air, Rick throws himself onto Daryl’s back with a giggle.

“Oh, Daryl, shouldn’t you get a haircut?” He coos, voice high-pitched to mock the comments from the dinner table. 

Daryl teases him right back. “Have ya picked out a college yet, dear? A major?”

Rick laughs until tears prick the corners of his eyes, sliding down Daryl’s back and settling down on the back stairs. Daryl sits next to him, grunts, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Rick eyes them tantalizingly. Usually, he tries to avoid smoking cigarettes, but after that night, he can’t think of anything he needs more. 

Daryl passes him one, then the lighter. Rick feels his nerves calm almost instantly, both by the smoke filling his lungs with nicotine and Daryl’s familiar, tranquil presence. The sound of the screen door opening with a shriek makes them both cringe. 

“They really gotta oil that shit,” Rick mutters. He looks behind him to see Lori standing awkwardly a few feet away. 

“You smoke?” Daryl asks casually, indicating with the pack. Lori’s face contorts in disgust; the boys exchange snickers. 

Lori gathers herself and sits next to Rick. She has long brown hair, freckles that obviously only come out in the sun, and golden eyes. She hadn’t said a word during dinner unless she was addressed, and like Rick and Daryl, she kept her eyes on her plate. 

“That’s a bad habit, Rick,” She whispers. Daryl coughs. 

Rick shrugs. “Whatever.”

They sit in awkward silence for a while until Daryl can’t stand it. He gets to his feet, stomps out his cigarette, and runs a hand through his hair. The moon is high in the stars.

“G’night, Rick,” He says, hesitantly. Rick watches him. He wants to ask if it's safe for him to go home, if he wants to stay over again. But Lori’s still sitting beside him, and he can't.

“Goodnight, Daryl.” He imagines Daryl tapping on his window at three in the morning, bleeding and crying. He can feel panic crawling up his throat. This is what happens when he smokes butts instead of blunts.

And then he's left alone with Lori and his intrusive thoughts. He waits for one of them to speak first. Lori does.

“You know…” She starts. “Your parents were right. You need to get on a better path, Rick. Daryl – ” 

She cuts off when Rick glares at her. “Daryl what?” 

“Is his friendship worth all of this? Worth throwing your life away for a few wild nights you won't even remember?”

Rick hates her. He didn't hate her at first, just what she represented to his parents and for his future, but now he hates her. 

“I have a girlfriend.” He turns back to the yard. He hears her leave, not sparing her retreating body a glance.

* * *

 

“Dinner sounds like it was horrible,” Michonne hums sympathetically. Her long fingers card through Rick’s curls, periodically scratching at his scalp. He'd texted her after Lori’s family left, and not ten minutes later she was crawling through his window ala Daryl.

Rick groans and buries his face in her neck. “I don't wanna talk about it anymore.” Michonne hums again and kisses along in the wake of her fingers. He talks about it. “Lori asked me if being friends with you guys was worth throwing my future away. Am I throwing my future away? I’m not, right? Everyone fucks around in high school  –  that's what it's for – ”

“Rick, honey,” Michonne slaps her hand over his mouth to shut him up. “You've got to stop. You're freaking out for no reason.”

“I know,” Rick mumbles around her palm. She replaces her hand with her mouth, kissing him with earnest until he almost forgets what he was worried about. Almost. 

When they break apart, Rick sighs again. “I hope Daryl’s okay.”

Michonne mumbles. “He's survived this long without you, he’ll be fine for one night.” Rick nods at that, then settles down with Michonne in his arms and falls asleep with dark thoughts plaguing his mind.

* * *

 

Daryl likes to fight. 

Rick begins to notice that more and more. Scuffles in the lunchroom, brawls at parties, altercations outside Rite Aids. He even took simple joy in play fighting and drunken wrestling. Rick recognizes him better with black eyes and busted lips than without. And when he goes without fighting for a while, he gets antsy. 

So that's how they got here, in the middle of the woods, a few six packs between them and a pathetic looking campfire. Glenn and Michonne struggle to pitch their single tent, which is meant only for three people, while Maggie and Daryl set to work rolling joints and Rick prods at the stubborn flames.

“I wish I had a dog,” Daryl says with a defeated tone. 

“You'll get one when you grow up,” Maggie assures. 

“I  _ am _ grown up,” Daryl argues, his petulant whine completely contradicts his statement. 

Maggie, recognizing this, giggles. “When you grow up even more.” Daryl rolls his eyes. 

Rick leans against Daryl’s shoulder, shivering as the cold ground sweeps through his clothes. Daryl throws one arm loosely around him and uses his free hand to light up, passing it to Rick after taking a good sized hit. Rick lets the weed warm his insides as the rest of his friends join them around the fire. Glenn cracks open a can of beer.

“Here's to our youth,” He announces. They all raise their own cans in cheers, smiling until their cheeks hurt.

The sun sets around them, and ordinarily, the shadows the trees cast would send prickles up Rick’s spine. But here, now, with Daryl and a Glenn draping off each other as they dance around singing Bon Jovi songs, they offer a curtain of protection between them and the rest of the world. 

_ We could stay like this forever _ , he thinks as Michonne tosses her head back in laughter. Logically, he knows they can't, but for as long as he can pretend, he will. 

Daryl swims in the lake and smiles his lopsided smile and laughs his wind chime laugh. When his shirt is off, and his scars bare themselves to the moonlight, he sings to the sky, and Rick loves him.

“I want to kiss more boys,” Daryl slurs when it's four in the morning. They drag their sleeping bags out under the stars, tangle their legs and bodies into one breathing mass. It's warm like this, and safe, and Daryl’s crying. 

“Then kiss more boys,” Maggie says gently, her lips pressed to Glenn’s neck and her arm wrapped around Michonne’s waist. 

Rick buries himself deeper into the blankets, one arm around Michonne’s body, the other at an awkward backwards angle to rest against Daryl’s shoulder. Daryl plays with a loose strand of Rick’s hair thoughtfully; Rick can't see his face, but he knows he's smiling. 

Daryl, with a smile on his face, says, “I think my dad’s gonna kill me.”

* * *

 

If Rick had known leaving those trees would mark the beginning of the end, he would've rooted himself into the ground alongside them. 

Daryl’s nightly visits become regular, his bleeding is fresher, his tears are angrier. Rick hates Tuesdays and he hates Will Dixon and he hates feeling this useless. A few times he offers to call the police, but the risk of Daryl getting sent to a boy's home is too big. Also, Daryl’s heart rate goes up and panic sets in when Rick mentions it, so he doesn't mention it anymore. It's easier for him to take sanction in Rick’s room, anyway.

Maggie and Glenn become less like a casual fling and more like a relationship. They celebrate their anniversaries and meet each other's parents. Rick and Michonne are a few steps behind them, but on their way nonetheless. Daryl sticks to arching his back for strangers in dark alleys and twin size mattresses. 

They don’t realize it, not right away, but they begin to grow up. Slowly, one step at a time. 

They near the end of their senior year with enthusiasm and only a touch of nostalgia. Maggie spends more time worrying about the future while Glenn applies to colleges; Rick spends more time worrying about Daryl while Michonne waits for acceptance letters. Daryl spends more time smoking more weed and getting drunk and trying to avoid his father. 

They're getting there.

 

“Rick.” Michonne greets him in the hallway with a kiss on the cheek. 

Rick swoops her up. “Hey, babe, happy six months.” 

Michonne giggles and kisses him again, this time on the lips. Daryl and Glenn, leaning against the lockers next to them, make fake gagging noises. They turn to walk away, huffing something about giving them privacy. Rick flips the bird to their backs.

“So,” Michonne continues when they're out of earshot. She plays with the fabric of his collar. “What's the plan for tonight?” 

“Dunno,” Rick grins. “I'm thinking… romantic dinner then back to my place?”

“Is that all you think about? Food and sex?”

Rick snorts. “Yes.” 

“Well, then it looks like we're a good match.”

“You're only just realizing this?”

“Yes,” She echoes. 

Rick nudges her hard enough that she loses her footing momentarily, only to have her shove him back so he had to catch himself on the lockers. Michonne kisses him again, keeping him there for as long as she liked. Hesitantly, she pulls back.

“What about Daryl?” She asks. It takes Rick a few seconds to realize what she's talking about.

He groans. “I’ll just – fuck I dunno. Ask him not to come by tonight? Is that safe?”

Michonne sighs. “I feel like we've had this conversation bef – ”

“I know, I know.” Rick pulls away from her, suddenly feeling very claustrophobic. “He’ll be fine for one night, I get it, but what if?”

“Rick, sweetie,” Michonne grabs him again. “It's your life. It's your decision. I’ll love you either way, he'll love you either way. It's really not that deep.”

Rick feels himself calm down just a fraction when pinned under her gaze. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

* * *

 

“Dare!” Rick calls ahead to his friend, who's leaning against his truck in the parking lot. Daryl looks up, smiles, and waves. “Hey.”

“Sup?” Daryl greets. He fishes into his vest pockets and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it while he waits for Rick to speak. Rick almost asks for one. 

“Uh…” Drifting off makes Daryl’s eyebrows raise in suspicion. 

“Rick?”

“It's me and Michonne’s anniversary today,” Rick blurts.

Daryl blinks. “I know. Six months. Congrats, by the way – ” 

Rick cuts him off, his heart aching. “We… we need to be alone tonight, okay?”

Daryl stares at him, cigarette hanging unsmoked from his slightly parted lips. Rick wants to take it back, but he forces himself to stay strong. It's Friday night, Daryl will go out to parties and go home with a stranger and be fine. He repeats it like a mantra.

“Wh – ” Daryl’s voice fails him. “I  –  okay. Yeah, shit.” Daryl, previously relaxed, straightens his back sharply and looks anywhere but at Rick. “I’ve been, uh, pretty invasive lately haven't I?” He runs a hand through his long brown hair. “I'm sorry man, shit, why didn't you kick me out?”

Rick stops him before he can continue. “No, no! It's not like that, it's just… we need tonight, okay?”

Daryl’s eying him strangely; Rick hates it. “Yeah, dude. I get it.” Rick takes a step towards him, but he takes a matching one backward, towards the driver’s door. “I, uh, gotta go now. See you when I see you.”

Rick’s heart sinks. “Daryl – ” 

But he's already in the car and starting the engine, leaving Rick to stare hopelessly at his bumper as it drives away from him. 

He turns and walks slowly to his own car, where he finds Michonne waiting for him, browsing through her phone with a bored expression. She looks up when he approaches, eyes brightening momentarily, then darkening again when she notices the weight dragging his feet.

“How'd it go?” She asks automatically.

Rick just brushes past her and climbs into the car. Michonne does the same, all the while watching him suspiciously. It takes until they're out of the school parking lot for Rick to find the motivation to talk. 

“It went well.”

“Liar.”

Rick tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “No, it did, and that's what sucks. He acted like I abandoned him.” 

Michonne rubs his thigh sympathetically. “He understands. He's not stupid.” 

“I know.”

“Good, now stop worrying and let's do this.”

Rick laughs. “You got it.”

* * *

 

Maggie and Glenn spend their Friday nights in a more domestic fashion these days. Parties got old. They prefer quiet evenings in now, which worries Maggie because it makes her feel like an old couple. While there's no doubt in her mind Glenn’s the one she wants to be with for the rest of her life, she doesn't like the idea of settling down just yet. 

So now it's one am, and they're wide awake, a bottle of Jameson whiskey and a deck of cards shared between them. Maggie’s comforter is floral patterned and soft. She whoops in joy when she beats Glenn at _ War _ once again. A bit tipsy, Glenn just falls back on her bed and laughs. 

There's a knock on Maggie's front door. They both start to attention. Exchanging glances, Maggie and Glenn wait in silence until another knock sounds.

“What the fuck?” Glenn says, irritated. “Who knocks at one in the morning.”

“No clue.” Maggie frowns. Another knock, quieter this time.

Glenn pales. “Daryl?”

Maggie shakes her head. “No, he'd come through the window. Daryl doesn't knock.”

Another knock. Maggie feels sick. Glenn looks sick.

“Are you…”

“Daryl doesn't knock.” 

“Maggie – ”

“He'd go to Rick. He'd go to Rick.” 

“It's – ”

“ _ Fuck. _ ” Maggie launches from her bed. Playing cards go everywhere as Glenn follows her. She takes the stairs two, three at a time, positive that her parents must be awake at this point. 

_ Daryl doesn't knock. _

_ Daryl doesn't knock. _

Maggie throws the front door open, already crying, because Daryl promised he wouldn't knock unless he was half dead.

And he was.

“Mag – ” He starts. Maggie’s head screams too loudly to hear the rest. 

There's too much blood, too many bruises, too many tears that she hardly recognizes him. He looks up at her like she’s a hallucination. His long hair has been cut short, his brilliant blue eyes are dulled. She catches him as he falls into her, unable to stand anymore. Blood pools through the left side of his t-shirt, sticky and maroon. 

“Dude,  _ what the fuck _ ,” Glenn yanks it up far more violently than he probably intended. Maggie's throat contracts. 

Carved into his side, by whatever knife, in big, choppy letters, ‘FAG’ stares at her defiantly. Glenn takes a step back in horror, hand still lifting the hem of his shirt.

“Why?” Maggie asks nobody, her voice a cracked whisper. Daryl is completely limp against her, more likely than not unconscious. “Oh god,” She turns to Glenn. “We gotta get him to the hospital.”

Glenn nods, patting down his pockets until he finds his keys. “Take my car, what do you need me to grab?” 

“Just blankets, towels,” Maggie recites, numb. Glenn grabs the side of her face and kisses her. She remains unresponsive. “Hurry.” Glenn starts back into the house. “Wait, call Rick!” She yells after him, unsure whether he heard her. 

Maggie watches Glenn rush back into the house, still fully supporting Daryl’s weight. She takes the moment alone to let out a wracking sob, almost dropping Daryl at the force it overcomes her body. She doesn’t cry again for the rest of the night. 

Glenn has a really nice car; Maggie almost feels guilty for tainting it with Daryl’s blood. They would all be tainted after tonight, though, and the car’s upholstery is the least of her worries as she gathers Daryl’s head in her lap. His chest rises and falls slowly, occasionally flatlining and making her heart jump into her throat. Then it picks up again and she continues running her hands through his butchered hair, trying to ignore the feeling of her fingers being caught by blood.

* * *

 

Glenn tries to ignore the sickening fact that there's blood covering his palm and his heart is threatening to beat out of his chest. He checks the time when he unlocks his phone screen. One ten in the morning.  _ Will Rick even pick up _ ? He thinks, finding his friend’s number from his favorites. His contact ID is a blurry picture of him and Daryl, blunts hanging from their smiling mouths, shirtless and hanging off each other. Anger grips his throat like a choking hand.  _ He better fucking pick up.  _

One ring. Images of Daryl collapsing into Maggie’s arms flash into Glenn’s mind. Two rings. The carving in Daryl’s side. Three rings. The fact that he could very well be dyi-

Rick answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?” His voice is disoriented and bleary on the other line. Glenn is at a loss for words, traumatized into silence. “Glenn? What the hell, man, it's one in the morning.”

Glenn snaps. 

“Why the  _ fuck _ is Daryl  _ here _ and not  _ there _ .”

Rick hesitates. “What?”

Hershel, Maggie’s father, appears around the corner, jacket on and arms full of blankets and towels. “Glenn, we gotta go.”

“Glenn,” Rick’s voice is scratchy now. “Glenn. Glenn whats going on.”

Glenn, to Hershel, asks, in the smallest voice: “Is he dying?” Rick’s sharp inhale is the only sound he gets in reply. 

Hershel shakes his head slowly. “Glenn, we gotta go.” 

“He’s dying.” Glenn deadpans. To Rick, he says: “Meet us at the hospital.”

“Glenn, please–” 

He hangs up.

* * *

 

The dial tone stings Rick’s ear. Michonne is stirring beside him, making soft noises in her sleep. For a long, but somehow brief second, it feels unreal. He thinks, with a swaying feeling, that he’s dreaming, and then Michonne’s asking him what’s wrong and he’s launching himself out of bed, heart in his throat. 

“What we said wouldn’t happen, happened,” Rick explains, mouth dry. He fumbles mechanically to put on his clothes and dig his shoes out from under his bed. Michonne sits up, rubbing her eyes. 

“Huh?”

“Something happened with Daryl, I don’t know,” Rick says. “Glenn called, told me to meet him at the hospital. Said - said something like, he’s dying?” The words feel disgusting on his tongue.

Michonne jerks to alertness. “Fuck.” 

Rick sits on the edge of his bed while she fumbles to get dressed, trying to regulate his breathing and focus on not bursting into tears. Terror settles like a rock in his belly, his legs feel useless, and his heart beats slow. However long it is before Michonne is shaking him into standing is lost to him. 

“I’ll drive,” She offers softly, breath tickling Rick’s ear. 

“No,” Rick replies, harsher than intended. “No.”

They leave without telling his parents and without caring if they woke them or not. They leave completely uncaring, and Rick drives to the hospital with both hands gripping the steering wheel. His knuckles turn white. 

Michonne has been watching him, he can tell, and at every red light that takes hours to turn green, he almost looks at her, too. He doesn’t. He doesn’t look at anything but the road and the signs that indicate which way the hospital is. 

He finds himself trying to memorize the little details he would’ve normally looked over. The way the street lights splashed even, yellow circles on the damp pavement, the way the paint that separates the lanes was chipping. Rick remembers with a numb feeling how Daryl once told him to take everything in, even the things that didn’t seem worth it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Rick hears wind chime laughter, and then the hospital comes into view and he jerks the steering wheel. He mutters an unneeded apology to Michonne. 

When they get there, the parking lot is next to empty. Rick recognizes Glenn’s car parked in a careless way near the entrance. Rick parks a few spots away, keeping a cautious eye on the vehicle. 

“It’s not going to attack you,” Michonne says lightly. There is not a hint of humor in her voice. 

Rick says nothing back, exiting the car and making for the ER doors without checking to see if his girlfriend was behind him. 

His feet tap lightly on the white tile floors and the fluorescent lights cut into his head. He finds himself yearning for leaf mold underfoot and the soft gray moonlight. Despair catches in his throat and he finds himself running right past the secretary who calls pointlessly after him. Michonne offers her reassurance while Rick searches desperately for the elevator, only to realize he has no idea where Daryl is. 

“Where is he?” He asks nobody, panic beginning to overcome him. 

“Rick,” Michonne is in front of him now, a hand on each shoulder, forcing him to make eye contact with her. “Calm down, okay?”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Rick says, bewildered by her audacity. “My friend could be  _ dead _ –”

Michonne crowds into his face in a fit of rage. “Don’t talk like that!” Rick is shocked into silence. “Just– just don’t say that.” The fire drains from her eyes. “They’re in room A416.”

Rick thanks her with a curt nod. 

The corridors are hauntingly empty. Rick watches the numbers on the doors as he passes them, until he comes to a halt outside A416. He waits for Michonne to join him before he takes her hand in his, squeezes once, and pushes open the door. 

The first thing Rick hears is laughter, which takes him aback, and then the sound of Maggie shushing. Then he sees them, Daryl laid up in bed and Maggie and Glenn seated on either side of him, playing Uno. Rick is frozen on the spot, trying to process the scene in front of him: Daryl’s hair cut short, Glenn smiling proudly, Maggie looking irritated. It was like he had just walked into their living room, not a hospital room. 

“Rick,” Glenn says, noticing him. “Michonne, thank god.” 

Rick looks at Daryl. “Are– are you okay?” 

Daryl turns to Glenn and Maggie, who exchange knowing glances and nods. “C’mon, let's get something to eat,” Maggie offers, to both her boyfriend and Michonne. “Daddy already went out, let's go find him.”

“Okay,” Michonne agrees. Rick feels her lips brush his cheek as she begins to leave. Maggie doesn't even look at him when she passes. Rick wants to cry. 

When he's alone with Daryl, he does. 

“I'm fine,” Daryl says. Rick laughs dryly. Daryl rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Rick presses, coming to take Maggie’s seat on Daryl’s right. The boy frowns, watching Rick’s movements with furrowed brows. Rick lowers his voice. “Now that it’s just you and me, are you  _ really _ fine?”

Daryl avoids the question by bringing two fingers up and toying with a short strand of hair. “I miss my long hair.” 

Rick finds Daryl’s free hand and covers it with his own. “What happened?”

“M’dad cut it. I dunno why, just said I needed a trim ‘nd the next thing I know–” He cuts off, head shaking and shoulders drawing upwards. At the movement, Daryl lets out a sharp, quiet gasp of pain. Rick leans closer. 

“Daryl?”

Fresh tears stream down Daryl’s face as he goes to lift up his shirt. Rick, amidst his confusion, begins to question him, but upon seeing what lies underneath the hospital gown, he is shocked into silence. The cuts have been plastered under a large band-aid that Daryl hastily removes, and the infected wounds are ugly enough without the word it carved. Rick feels sick. Daryl covers it again and leans back against his pillow. 

“I’m so fuckin’ messed up,” Daryl mutters. “This is so fuckin’ messed up. That shits gonna  _ scar _ Rick–”

Rick hushes him by gripped his hand tighter. He leans forward until his head rests against Daryl’s shoulder. They both cry. They cry until they tire themselves out and fall asleep, hand in hand, broken and ugly.

* * *

 

“Rick, can I talk to you?” Maggie’s voice is soft in his ear, waking him from his dreamless slumber. He spares Daryl’s sleeping face a glance before standing up groggily. Maggie starts off towards the door. 

“We got him,” Glenn says. Michonne stands to his right, two cups of coffee in her hands. She offers one to Rick when he walks by. He refuses and rubs his eyes with a yawn, joining Maggie in the hall. 

The bright lights irritate Rick’s newly conscious eyes, but its Maggie’s glare that makes his stomach stir. Rick waits in confused patience for her to begin. 

In a sickeningly calm tone, she says: “Why did he show up on my porch at three in the fucking morning?” Rick opens his mouth then shuts it, speechless. Her voice raises. “Why weren’t you there for him? The fuck were you doing that was so important? He told me you said he couldn’t go over, what the fuck does that  _ mean _ Rick?”

“It– it was me and Michonne’s anniversary.” Rick finds himself pointlessly defending his actions; they both knew this was partially on him. “Daryl and I, we agreed that this one night–”

Maggie laughs bitterly. “You thought his dad was gonna take a break from being an abusive douche-bag so you could get  _ laid _ ?” Her voice raises in hysterics.

Rick flinches. “It's not Michonne’s fault, please don’t blame her.”

“I’m not,” Maggie snaps. “I love Michonne, and I love you.” The anger slowly melts away. “It's not anyone's fault except Will fucking Dixon’s.”

Rick frowns. “If you don't blame anyone, why’d you drag me out here to yell at me?” He's not angry, just curious.

Maggie turns her attention to her feet, mumbling incoherently, and Rick understands.

“You just needed someone to blame.” 

“Yeah,” Maggie says, apologetically. “‘m sor-”

“Don't be,” Rick raises his hand. He continues bluntly, stripped of emotion: “I’m gonna break up with Michonne.”

Maggie stares at him in shocked horror, mouth ajar, eyes wet. Rick had spent the drawn out hours between the reaping phone call and this very moment pondering his decision, but saying it out loud left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Wh-” Maggie fumbles for words. “Why, Rick? What the fuck?” 

Rick shrugs. “You said yourself: I need to be there for him.” 

Maggie opens and closes her mouth. “You can do both,  _ I  _ do both -”

“Do you?” Rick asks, innocent enough. “He comes to  _ my  _ house, Mags, more often than not since you and Glenn got serious.” 

Tears flow freely down her pretty face as she faces the reality of what Rick’s saying. They can't do both, not with Daryl, not after this. It's obvious enough, and although Rick’s entire soul belongs to Michonne’s, this is something he needs to do. At least until Daryl can get out. 

Before he knows it, Maggie is pulling him into a hug. “Don't do this,” She quietly pleads, lips against his shirt. Rick rubs her back soothingly. “Don’t do this.”

* * *

 

He does.

Michonne says she understands, Rick prays she does. Of course she does, he figures when she kisses his cheek one more time, because she's understanding and kind and loves Daryl and Rick more than anything. Rick, now standing alone in the hospital parking lot, watching Maggie, Glenn, Hershel, and Michonne drive off, feels more alone than ever.

_ Is it worth it?  _ Lori’s question plays on repeat in his mind as he makes his way back to Daryl. He stops at the café, grabbing two sandwiches, bags of chips, and bottles of water. All the unfamiliar faces he passes offer him smiles, which he returns weakly.  _ Is it worth it? _

Daryl greets Rick enthusiastically, with a lopsided smile and outstretched hands at the sight of the food. The IV connected to his wrist, the bandages on his side, his chopped hair, they are constant reminders that nothing will ever be the same. 

_ Is it worth it?  _

Daryl tells him about his dreams and remains in peaceful bliss about the choice Rick made. He tells him about the names of his future dogs and how he wants to learn how to use a crossbow. Rick feels empty, but he knows no matter what, he'll never be alone. 

_ Yes it is. _

* * *

 

“You feeling better?” The nurse asks on the third day. Daryl, distracted by Rick, mumbles in confirmation. The kind-hearted, grandmotherly woman, rolls her eyes affectionately. Over the past few days, she had been supervising Daryl, and therefore Rick, and become quite soft for them. “Good enough to go home today?” Her gaze has turned serious. 

Rick and Daryl exchange glances. She knows well enough what happened to Daryl, and is obviously concerned for him. Cautiously, Rick answers for him.

“...I think he’ll be coming home with me.” 

Daryl nods in confirmation. The nurse looks a bit hesitant. 

“Okay, sweetheart.”

And then she leaves. 

Daryl sighs and toys with a loose piece of thread on his gown. Rick watches him silently, unsure if he wants to talk or not. It’s a peaceful moment of serenity between them, much like when they smoked. Typically, Rick was the one who broke the silence, but this time it was Daryl.

“I… think I need new clothes.”

Rick tosses his head back in a laugh at Daryl’s bizarre request. Daryl chuckles too, one hand on his brow, shoulders shaking with mirth. Rick squeezes his knee once, already feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders.

“I’ll text Mags, see if she can grab some stuff from my place to bring over for you,” Rick offers, already reaching for his phone.

“Thank you,” Daryl says quietly. Rick shoots a quick text to Maggie, realizing only after it was delivered that Daryl was staring at him. 

“What's up?” Rick asks.

“Why…” Daryl begins, then shifts his position so he's better facing Rick and continues: “Why are you doin’ all of this?” 

Rick blinks. “You're my friend. I lo-”

“Why?” Daryl whispers. 

In all the months he's had his heart, soul, and window open to Daryl, Rick only just now realizes. Daryl is staring at him, desperate for an answer he won't even accept or listen to. No matter what, Daryl will never believe he's worthy of love. 

So Rick just smiles softly and brings one hand up to cup Daryl’s cheek. His thumb rubs under his eye. “One day you'll understand.” 

He can feel Daryl’s smile against his palm.

* * *

 

They don't go straight home after Daryl’s admitted. Parting from Maggie in the parking lot, Daryl clad in a pair of Rick’s basketball shorts and Hershel’s sweater, they go to the park. Except they don't stop there, they keep driving until they park on a hill overlooking the town. The breeze catches the short strands of Daryl’s hair and Rick misses the way they'd flow. 

Their whole lives spread before them, Rick says: “Life is scary.” He pulls Daryl’s sweater tightly around him; he stills stashes it in his car after he stole it. Daryl notices and doesn't mind. 

Daryl nods, lighting a cigarette. “Yes,” he agrees. The sunset casts an orange glow on his handsome features. With a soft smile and his body angled towards Rick he continues. “Thank you for makin’ mine a little bit less scary.”

Rick smiles through the tears in his eyes. “You're welcome.” 

Daryl tells him a story about losing his virginity to a girl at a party. He says he doesn't remember her name or her face or the song that was playing when he threw up, but he does remember the ache in his gut that hasn't yet disappeared. He was fifteen and filthy, he gave the road innards when he got outside, puking until he couldn't puke anymore. Rick listens, eyes wide, throat contracting. 

“I prefer boys.” Daryl murmurs and shakes his head. 

He tells another story about dirt in his mouth and a hand on his throat. He speaks calmly of bruises and busted lips and abandonment. Daryl likes boys because they can be worse, he explains. At least with boys, he feels something. Pain, blunt nails on his biceps, razors on his thighs, but  _ something _ . With girls, he feels nothing. Rick stops him before he can continue. 

“Tell me a happy story,” Rick whispers. He can feel Daryl’s heartbeat and misses Michonne’s room that smells like peaches and fabric. 

“You've lived them all,” Daryl hums. “Without you, I have no happy stories.”

Rick cries. 

* * *

 

“You mentioned your brother once,” Rick says in passing. They are spread out on his bed in the dim light of early morning, Daryl’s head by his feet. “Why don’t you ever talk about him?”

Daryl snorts. He’s awfully focused on a game of Candy Crush on his phone. “He’s an asshole.”

“He doesn’t live with you?”

“No, he got away,” Daryl says. “Like I said before.”

“What was his name?” Rick is interested now. He puts his essay notes aside and sits up, leaning on his elbows. 

Daryl does the same. “Merle.”

Rick tries to stifle his giggle. “Merle and Daryl? Y’all make quite the pair.”

“Shuddup.” Daryl smacks his knee playfully. “Work on yer essay.”

“Okay, mom.” Rick rolls his eyes. 

After a few minutes - maybe hours - of peaceful quiet, interrupted only by Daryl’s grunts and cheers at his game and Rick exclaiming that he’s going to drop out, they agree to get some sleep. Daryl shifts his position so he’s on Rick’s pillow. Ever since he’s been in the hospital, Daryl hasn’t smelt much like smoke or weed or leather or the forest; he smells bizarrely domestic. Rick frowns against the soft hair nuzzled under his chin. 

“I miss your long hair, too,” He admits to the dark room. Daryl hums, half asleep.

“M’hair grows fast,” Daryl replies, distorted by his mouth shoved into Rick’s armpit. 

Rick laughs, spread out on his back, Daryl’s arm thrown across his chest. Platonic “bro cuddles” are not unfamiliar to them. In fact, they both admitted a while back that sleeping without one another has become an almost impossible task. Rick owes Daryl the truth.

“Hey…” Rick says, nudging the heavy body beside him. Daryl mumbles in annoyance, obviously near sleep. “Daryl,” Rick huffs. 

Daryl buries his nose deeper in Rick’s body but grunts in permission to continue.

Rick chooses his words carefully. “Michonne and I… we aren’t together anymore.”

Daryl tenses. For a few moments, he says nothing, just slowly lifts his head and stares at Rick through the darkness. Rick watches him calmly, weighing the emotions that play on his face. Finally, Daryl speaks. 

“Why?”

Rick blinks, shrugs. “Just… didn’t work out. Shit happens.”

“Shit happens, my ass,” Daryl snaps. “Its ‘cuz a’me, isn’t it?” 

Taken aback, Rick attempts: “No-”

“Don’t lie to me, Rick,” Daryl hisses. “Y’all were fine and dandy b’fore this shit happened, and now all of a sudden ‘shit happens’? The fuck, Rick?”

“You’re the priority,” Rick insists, carding his fingers through Daryl’s hair. The boy calms slightly under his massage, settling back down. He burrows back into the blankets, nose to Rick’s armpit, a pout on his face. 

“I’m not worth it,” Daryl whimpers. 

“You are,” Rick promises. 

Daryl shakes his head, crying and wetting Rick’s shirt until he falls asleep.

* * *

 

When Rick wakes up, it's raining. His bed is empty, his head is pounding. It’s early in the afternoon, although it's hard to tell because the days are still short and the clouds cover the sun. They must’ve only slept a few hours. Daryl’s missing presence is expected, but this specific disappearance strikes a nerve in the base of Rick’s spine. He’s finally safe, he doesn’t need to run anymore. 

He’s distracted from his annoyance by a breeze raising goosebumps on his exposed skin. Frowning in confusion, he turns to see the window left open. Daryl never leaves the window open. 

The window sill is drenched with rain, as with the blanket just beneath it. Fingers curling around the ledge, Rick spots a soggy piece of paper. There’s writing on it, almost illegible scrawl, the ink running along the ridges of crumbled edges. It’s Daryl’s handwriting. It reads, simply: 

_ Thank you _ .

Rick’s heart drops like a rock to his gut. He’s read about suicide notes. They say you’d know one when you see one, how it's unmistakable. Rick holds one in his trembling hands. He replaces it with his phone. 

‘ _ Daryl, where the fuck are you’ _

He considered calling, but he didn’t want to spook him. Legs numb, throat tight, Rick waits. Daryl texts back surprisingly fast.

_ ‘did u finish ur essay’ _

‘ _ Daryl where are you’ _

_ ‘Daryl answer me.’ _

_ ‘Daryl for fucks sake’ _

_ ‘Please’ _

_ ‘im sorry’ _

_ ‘Don’t be sorry just tell me where you are’ _

_ ‘i dont want to’ _

_ ‘Then don’t. Just come home we dont even have to talk about it’ _

_ ‘its better this way, ricky’ _

_ ‘Daryl for the love of God, please’ _

Daryl takes a few minutes to reply. Rick takes the time to throw on his clothes and tug on his shoes. He slips on Daryl’s sweater, the safest thing he possesses, and his heart shatters when he realizes its adopted his own scent and lacks Daryl’s. His phone vibrates. 

_ ‘the bridge over the river where we smoked that one night when glenn lost his shoe’ _

_ ‘On my way, dont move’ _

_ ‘im sorry’ _

Rick is already out the door, feet splashing in the puddles as he completely bypasses his car. He runs, runs so his lungs ache and his legs feel weak. He doesn’t stop, even when his mouth tastes metallic and his heart pounds against his ribcage. This must be what Daryl feels everyday, he thinks, crossing the street without looking both ways.

Lori’s question tastes horrible in the back of his throat.  _ Is it really worth it _ ?

_ Yes. _ His vision blurs from the pelting rain.  _ Yes _ . He remembers Daryl’s brilliant blue eyes and left sided smile and wind chime laughter.  _ Yes _ . There is safety in his weed and safety in his arms and Rick wants to tell him stories until he falls asleep every night.  _ Yes. _ Without Daryl, he truly has nothing. He left Michonne, Maggie hates him, Glenn hasn’t returned his texts. Daryl is all Rick has now, truly, and all he wants.  _ Yes. Yes. Yes.  _

The bridge is in sight. So is Daryl, leaning against the guardrail, staring down at the river. 

“Daryl!” Rick calls through the rain, slowing to a walk. Daryl, still facing downwards, ignores him. Rick’s eyes are stinging from the torrent. As he gets closer, he says, quieter: “Daryl.”

“What?” Daryl finally answers, sounding tired and slightly bored. 

“Are you okay…?” Rick asks cautiously. Daryl shrugs in reply. Fear makes Rick short-tempered. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Watching. Its peaceful.”

“Daryl,” Rick sighs. “Come home, please.”

Daryl’s laugh is bitter, like wind chimes in a hurricane. “I don’t have one.”

“I – ” Rick cuts himself off.  _ I’m your home, damnit!  _

Daryl’s short hair is still unfamiliar. It makes his cheekbones more obvious and his eyes smaller. Stray, uneven strands, proof of an uncaring hand, cling to his face by the rain, framing his sharp features and empty expression. Rick stands a few feet back from where Daryl is sitting, careful not to startle him or intrude. 

“Dare, you don’t have to do this,” He pleads, mouth dry. 

Daryl turns back to the river. “Why not?” He exhales wistfully. “I’m tired, Ricky.”

“Then come home,” Rick begs. “We can go back to sleep.”

“Not that kind of tired.”

Rick knows. God, he knows. He doesn’t remember when he started crying, maybe he has been this entire time, but the rain becomes companions with his tears on his cheeks. Rick thinks back to a few months ago, before he knew Daryl, before he knew how to roll a joint or run from the cops or hate Tuesdays. Innocence, blissful innocence. Thunder claps above them. Daryl is scared of thunder. 

“Daryl – ”

Daryl rounds on him, a newborn fire in his eyes. “No, Rick! Fucks sake, why won’t y’let me die? Why do you have to give a shit? You make this so fucking hard!” Daryl’s raspy, southern drawl usually makes him sound older. Now, it cracks under the extreme sadness it bears and delivers. 

“I need you!” Rick presses, desperate. “You need me – ” Daryl snorts. Rick takes a step closer. “You’re eighteen in a few weeks, Dare, brother, you can get out soon. We can get out together, we can get a dog and learn archery and we can come back from this.”

“Hey man, I love you, but no fucking way,” Daryl says dryly; he shakes his head, raindrops fly from his hair. “You don’t get it,” He adds with a whisper. “My dad is determined to kill me, I won’t let him have the satisfaction, I’d rather do it mys – ”

“Don’t – ” Rick tries to steady his breathing. “Don’t even finish that sentence.” Rage boils in his belly.  _ I left Michonne for you!  _

The fight has left Daryl’s body and soul. He slouches, exhausted both mentally and physically. Blood begins to seep through his shirt on his side. Rick hardly recognizes him so defeated, so dull. Even Daryl’s frown favors the left side of his face. 

Finally, he speaks: “I told you, my sweet Rick, I told you. I’m not worth this, I’m not worth leaving Michonne. Lori tried to tell you that, all those weeks ago, why didn’t you listen? I’m not worth what you think I am.”

“You are.” Rick doesn’t know how he manages to speak through his sobs. “You are, you are, you are – ” He repeats it like a mantra, until, unexpectedly, Daryl pulls him into a bone crushing hug. 

Rick cries, the kind of cry that hurts his chest and causes him to cling to Daryl’s shirt as his legs threaten to give out. Daryl hums a song, a quiet song, a lullaby, unable to cry anymore. Rick knows there’s only one way this will end. 

Daryl rubs his back. “Let’s go home.” 

So they walk home, hand in hand, heavy under their soggy clothes. They walk through Rick’s living room, trekking mud up to his room. His parents don’t question them, they’ve learned not to. The sun is just started to set, the clouds are just starting to clear up. Rick’s room is still darker than normal. They peel off their clothes and change into clean sweatpants, baring their chests still. Daryl crawls into bed first, watching Rick as he joins him. 

Daryl presses a kiss to Rick’s hair. “Tomorrow,” He murmurs. His voice is everywhere at once, enveloping Rick’s entire soul. “You’ll call Michonne, you’ll finish that essay, you’ll quit smoking.”

“Okay,” Rick agrees. He realizes tomorrow is Tuesday.

“Good,” Daryl’s voice is husky. “Go to sleep.”

He does. 

* * *

 

When Rick wakes up, Daryl is gone, just as expected. 

But this time, he never comes back.

* * *

 

He only talks to Michonne, Maggie, and Glenn in passing now. He doesn’t go to any more parties, he doesn’t even have one for graduation. He doesn’t think the others do, either. As far as he knows, Maggie and Glenn marry and move far, far away. He doesn’t blame them.

Rick has one last conversation with Michonne, at midnight, in the shittiest diner in town. They don’t eat, they don’t even drink the coffee that goes cold in front of them. Michonne won’t look him in the eye. They talk about the weather, careful to avoid the topic of rain. Rick apologizes, Michonne says it isn't necessary. They part at one in the morning, and they never speak again. 

After high school, after Daryl and Michonne and Maggie and Glenn, Rick marries Lori. His parents love her. He sees her as a white picket fence, a nuclear family, and loveless sex. Safety and stability in a yellow sundress. Church and pancakes on Sundays. From then on, there were never enough stars in the sky. 

Years down the road, they have a son. A son who has his father’s eyes and his mother’s freckles. Rick loves him. He loves him more than he ever thought was possible. Despite everything, Rick loves Carl. He even gets him a dog, although he can’t bring himself to look at her. 

And then, one night twelve years after he’s born, Carl has a nightmare. Rick takes it upon himself to calm him to sleep. His son, while crying in his arms, asks: “Can you tell me a story?”

Rick tells him a story about a boy with wind chime laughter and brilliant blue eyes and a smile that favored the left side of his face. Rick cries. 

  
**The end.**

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering what happened to Daryl, which a lot of my proofreaders were, its up to you whether he's dead or alive or something else. In my mind, he's far away with a dog, cuddled in bed, safe and sound. But that's just me. 
> 
> Special thanks to The Front Bottoms, my friend's sweater that I stole (that smells like weed), and all the teachers who yelled at me to stop writing this in class and pay attention. 
> 
> Glenn Rhee deserved better.


End file.
